Little Earthquakes

Several bombshells have already fallen this week, and it's only Tuesday.

First, I discovered that the composer of a work I'll be giving the US premiere of next month will be traveling from London to attend the concert. An exciting development, although the news has contributed a heightened sense of frazzled urgency to my practice sessions.

Next I was asked to give another performance (of different repertoire, naturally) in little more than two weeks time. March is Women's History Month, so music by the ladies is in particularly high demand.

I'll post the details once I regain my composure.

And miles to go before I sleep...

Happy Birthday, Mr. President

I had such a lovely time over the President’s Day weekend I couldn't resist further shirking my responsibilities and extending it for a few more days.

I spent Saturday at Mos Def’s performance at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. I wasn't too familiar with his music prior to the concert (although I loved The Italian Job, mostly because of the speedy Mini Coopers). I had read a not-so-enthusiastic review of his recent Jazz at Lincoln Center performance, which was apparently uninspired. At BAM, he was inconsistent. Backed by an 11-piece brass menagerie and a slick rhythm section, Mos Def proved to be a charismatic performer, joking and chatting with the audience and periodically busting out sprightly dance steps. The high point of his set was his fantastic cover of Bell Biv Devoe’s “Poison”, a tune that every American of my generation inherently knows the lyrics to. Unfortunately much of his original material lacked the same energy, and halfway through the night Mos Def seemed to be losing steam. He further alienated his audience by taking some veiled shots at his home Brooklyn turf before a cover of Neil Young's “Like a Hurricane,” dedicated to victims of Katrina. Overall, there were a few magical moments that made the trip to BK worthwhile. The bar/lounge on the Opera House’s mezzanine reminded me that I should visit my second favorite borough more often.

Monday I had brunch at Pastis with a visiting friend from Tokyo. Due to the holiday, Eggs Benedict were still being served at 4 pm. One member of my party was over an hour late (which normally would have put me on the warpath), but by the time she finally arrived my other companion and I were well on our way to intoxication, contentedly sipping Les Vies en Roses at the bar.

Today I decided to could squeeze in a very quick trip to the North Country. Perhaps I was too inspired by Kevin Harvick’s win at Daytona on Sunday, because I was presented with a speeding ticket instead of a trophy. That never happens to Kasey Kahne.

Miss Scarlet, in a Snowbank, with the Shovel

Everything is closed today due to the snowy-ice-rain weather conditions. I'm exceptionally thankful for the day off after yesterday's train explosion incident (summary: it turned out to be inconsequential, all involved emerged unscathed, it probably wasn't even mentioned on the news, but I'm still a bit shaken up...and I'll be avoiding public transportation for a while).

I'll be taking advantage of these rare unscheduled hours to catch up on my correspondence, practice and possibly watch that classic of American comedy, Clue.

For anyone else who's stuck indoors, or in a cubicle, or just plain bored, here's an enlightening quiz. I'm Miss Scarlet. But you knew that already.

The Vertical Hour

I believe I've already mentioned my aversion to Broadway musicals (although, to be fair, the last few I've attended have been surprisingly worthwhile). In contrast, I find the dramatic theater irresistible. Instead of paying somewhat exorbitant prices to see a film in Times Square, I can walk a block or two and enjoy the performances of live actors (in some cases the same people I would have seen onscreen), for not much more (when I'm lucky enough to search out hefty discounts).

A friend of mine posts "audience reviews" on his blog, where he critiques the etiquette of his fellow theatergoers instead of the performance. In that spirit, I definitely prefer play audiences to musical audiences. I would estimate that the typical Broadway crowd is about 80% tourists (higher if it's a Disney production, of course). However, in my observation, more native New Yorkers are interested in seeing plays, so I don't feel as if I've mistakenly wandered into a Red State when I enter the theater.

David Hare's politically charged The Vertical Hour proved to be both more currently relevant and thought-provoking than I had expected. The plot follows a former war correspondent (recently retired into a Political Studies professorship at Yale) on a trajectory-altering visit to the English country estate owned by her boyfriend's father. In her portrayal of Nadia Blye, Julianne Moore reminded me of those musicians whom, although incredibly talented, are difficult to watch because they radiate discomfort while onstage. In contrast, Bill Nighy (as the father) seemed completely and utterly at ease. He is nearly ubiquitous these days (I just saw him in Notes on a Scandal as Cate Blanchett's crusty old husband), and Nighy's apparently effortless charisma was disarming. Although it subtly incorporated many themes, at the play's heart was a single observation: be it personally or as a society, it is always simpler for us to live in denial than to face the truth.

Keep Your Pants On, Mr. Yellow Windbreaker

Alex Ross reports that Gian Carlo Menotti has died. I had no idea he was still alive.

I recently saw the film Notes on a Scandal, with a score by Philip Glass, who celebrated his 70th birthday yesterday. Although he has been endlessly criticized for his contributions to products of Hollywood, Glass’s music seems to mesh beautifully with intensely dramatic films where the action mostly takes place inside the minds of the people onscreen (as in The Hours). His latest effort mirrors the obsessively repetitive tendencies of the film’s juicy main characters, played by Dame Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett, and of the human psyche in general. I’m attempting to view as many of the Oscar nominees as possible before the awards are distributed, but since it’s not a Best Picture contender, I no longer feel pressured to rush out and see Dreamgirls.

I dropped by the Stone last night to hear the alto sax player and "spontaneous composer" Steve Coleman, with my friend Tim Albright on trombone. Another friend, Mike McGinnis, had evidently been in attendance for the first set and ended up sitting in on alto sax for the second. Those guys are two of the tightest musicians I know, so if they’re complaining about something being difficult and complicated, you can be sure it’s not humanly possible. Coleman is a founder of the M-base movement and known for his spiritual, geometrical and mathematical approach to composition. Tim attempted to translate some of the charts for me afterwards, incorporating elements of lunar cycles, astrology, the I Ching and poetry written by Coleman's wife. Unfortunately I was perturbed during the final 20 minutes of the performance by a dreadlocked young man in a bright yellow windbreaker. He was apparently in charge of the venue’s operations that night, and as soon as the set’s length had surpassed the one hour mark, he ostentatiously marched to the front of the audience and stood directly in the sightline of the performers. He proceeded to stare disinterestedly up at the ceiling, sigh audibly, and periodically check the time on his cell phone until the performance concluded. One would think John Zorn might be capable of employing someone who actually enjoys music at his establishment.